


Bored

by twisting_vine_x



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-02
Updated: 2012-09-02
Packaged: 2017-11-13 09:07:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/501812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twisting_vine_x/pseuds/twisting_vine_x
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Less than three weeks after John shoots a man to save Sherlock’s life, he wakes up to find Sherlock wrapped up like a bat in his giant coat, perched on the sofa and staring down at something in his hand.</p>
<p>(A/N: One of my friends wanted a coda to S1E01. Ergo, this little story was born.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bored

Less than three weeks after John shoots a man to save Sherlock’s life, he wakes up to find Sherlock wrapped up like a bat in his giant coat, perched on the sofa and staring down at something in his hand. There’s not even a hint of acknowledgement when John enters the room, but he thinks he’s starting to understand the truth behind _sometimes I don’t talk for days_ , and by the time he’s made himself a cup of tea, taken a shower, and eaten breakfast, Sherlock still hasn’t moved from the couch, and John is starting to wonder if Sherlock even knows he’s in the room.

“Sherlock?”

Still nothing. John stares for a moment longer, and then sits down in one of the sofa chairs and picks up a book. If his insane flatmate doesn’t want to talk to him, then John has other things he could be doing – and if trying to ignore how good Sherlock looks in that coat is at the top of that list, then nobody needs to know that but John.

“I was going to take that pill.”

“Sorry?”

“You were right. That night, with the cabbie. I was going to take that pill.”

Sherlock’s still not looking at him, and John carefully puts the book down again, his eyes going to the bottle that seems to have appeared in Sherlock’s fingers. In the first two days of knowing Sherlock, John had already figured out that he would kill to keep him safe, and that living with Sherlock is probably going to involve dodging bullets and chasing down psychopaths – and he’s already starting to wonder what it says about himself that he has no desire to run away. That, in fact, he’s felt more alive during his one week with Sherlock than he has since possibly before Afghanistan, and that he quite enjoys the idea of following Sherlock around and trying to keep him safe from himself.

“Is that –”

“Before the police arrived, I collected my bottle and scratched a mark into the cap.”

“So you know which one you were going to take?”

“Yes.”

“And what –”

“Nicked it from Lestrade this morning. Already ran the tests. I was right. I had the good bottle.”

The words are exactly what John wants to hear, but there doesn’t seem to be any smugness there, and – if anything – Sherlock seems frustrated, his lips pressed together and his eyebrows sharply narrowed. He looks almost like a statue, suddenly, perched there with the coat and the pale skin and the ridiculous cheekbones, and John finds himself fiddling with the book in his hands in lieu of flat-out staring at him.

“And so why aren’t we celebrating then?”

“I’m bored again.”

“Sherlock –”

“You don’t understand. It’s a constant stream inside my head. Something I can never get away from.”

“Then why not find another case?”

“The criminal classes are being hideously boring.”

Sherlock’s frown has deepened, the tiny bottle clutched a bit tighter in his fingers, and John tears his eyes away from him to study the smiley face on the wall, his concern for Sherlock warring with a sudden wave of anxiety on behalf of their apartment. Sherlock being bored never tends to end well, and although John is likely going to regret what he’s about to offer, it’s probably better than ending up with more holes in the wall or more heads in the fridge.

“So practice on me.”

“Sorry?”

“You already told me my military history. You figured out about Harry and the drinking. What more can you tell me?”

And that, finally, seems to get Sherlock’s attention, his expression sliding from frustration into visible confusion. They stare at each other for a second, and John gnaws on the inside of his cheek as he fights down a flush, his skin suddenly doing its best to turn red – and as much as he’s already second guessing the idea of putting himself in the firing line, it might almost be worth it to have Sherlock’s attention focused on him like this.

“Why would you offer that? You’ve seen what I do –”

“If this will stop you from putting holes in the wall –”

“John –”

“– then have at it. I’m not one of those people who will tell you to piss off, remember?”

Sherlock stares at him for a moment longer – it’s almost like being physically pinned in place, and either the air in the room is getting tight, or John’s lungs simply aren’t working right – and then he slides to his feet, putting the pill bottle down on the table in front of him and drawing his coat a bit tighter around him.

“Would Chinese food be acceptable?”

“I – what?”

“I’d much rather read the people in that restaurant than tell you things that will make you want to punch me.”

His lips twitch up ever so slightly, then, and John has the fleeting – and somewhat disconcerting – realization that he’s growing to quite like being on the receiving end of that smile. Coupled with the fact that Sherlock has more or less refused to throw John’s deepest and darkest secrets at him, and it’s a wonder that John manages to get to his feet at all.

“As long as you don’t piss off anyone who works there, I’m in.”

The smile curves a bit higher, and then Sherlock’s out the living room door, his coat pulled tight around him and the pill bottle still on the table. John stares at it for a second – that really needs to go back to Lestrade, at some point, before Sherlock gets charged with theft – but then John hears the downstairs door slam, and he grabs hold of his jacket and turns off the lights. He’s already starting to understand that he’ll follow pretty much anywhere that Sherlock leads him, and if that means chasing down criminals and going for food at midnight and having Sherlock smile at him like that, then John is pretty sure that running into Mike Stamford is one of the best things that’s ever happened to him.


End file.
